


Simmons, Seriously, These Titles Keep Getting More Cliche

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, [chapters separate], [more to come], piecemeal AU's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here is how these pairs are remixed into different universes; as you know, there are some loves that never falter, despite time and space and difference.</p><p>[title is throwback to first fic title; this series is at the behest of Dom]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simmons, Seriously, These Titles Keep Getting More Cliche

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated, as always. Just a bit of silly fun.  
> dom is @ normalcie.tumblr.com

Grif’s daily delight is his coffee and greasy, _greasy_ pastry in the morning. It’s the only reason he blinks his eyes open, lamb-like and innocent (so as he likes to think) and works himself out of bed; it’s the only reason he even dresses, brushes his hair (if minutely); it’s the only reason he’ll walk to work, because his favourite spot to visit in clockwork-routine had nowhere he could park easily. ‘Easily’ meaning without reversing in.

So, whilst the morning is crisp and fresh—before his midday shift begins—he strolls down lazily, slowly, and opens the door, in such a manner that is a repeat of every other day but this repeat is the sweetest. The lead-up, the build to standing there, to stepping into line.

“’Sup, Wash,” is always what he says and he says so, now, the sunlight perfectly streaming in, and Wash’s tired face—the same Wash as Monday, Tuesday, and so forth—is a relaxant, morphine loosening Grif’s entire body. He feels his hands loosely hang in his pockets of the leather jacket he managed to steal from his father before fleeing Hawaii.

“Grif,” is always what Wash responds with, and any other stranger would assume it’s cold but it’s Wash. “The usual, I assume.”

“Oh yeah,” Grif says, with maybe a margin of glee. “I’ll just wait over the side.” Routine, as it goes.

He spots a head of red hair, though, the most _fiery_ kind he’s ever had the privilege to see; it’s this kind that stands up on end beautifully and wonderfully.

But you know, you see beautiful strangers and you forget them. That’s how it is for Grif, at least, who’s given up on trying after Tucker’s tactics and suggestions didn’t work.

He leans on the counter after slamming down money from his pocket—the exact amount, $3.50—and waits patiently. He knows the exact time to come in to be served immediately. You learn these things.

Wash doesn’t talk much, either. But that’s fine. Grif soaks in the smell, the atmosphere, the heavy woods and rubber plants, the burnt sugar and roasting coffee. Grif is a hedonist for all these reasons.

When it arrives, oh, he savours it—this beauty—and every second is an expression that the old Masters of the Arts must have coveted; the Roman kings must be envious. Oh, Dexter Grif is in heaven, heaven and all its names are reserved for this moment.

Grif doesn’t leave the counter ever. This is when he seats at the barstool, chews thoughtfully.

But _this_. _This_ pain au chocolat, this chocolate croissant, it must be made of magic, unlike any other time. The chocolate melts in his mouth with the pastry and whoever made this, he must find out: he will marry them in the instant.

Or not quite so medieval—will not keep a pastry chef at his throne for the sake of the food they will bear him—but he will ask who made it.

He does.

This is when Wash sighs and turns to him, having already served the regular known as Lopez who only ever ordered black coffee, which Grif had to sneer at. No sugar or milk? Heathen.

“He’s fresh out of school,” Wash replies, opening the till and closing it, ensuring it’s in working order. “Don’t give him a hard time, would you.”

“I want to _congratulate him_ ,” Grif pronounces, setting the pastry down delicately on the paper bag. “This is ambrosia, Wash. _Ambrosia_.”

Wash’s eyebrows pop up just the way they do when Grif surprises him, which to Grif’s dismay isn’t that often. “I’ll let him know.” With the look on Grif’s face, though, he must deter from this statement. “I’ll bring him around, then.”

When Wash returns ever so quickly, Grif prodding the croissant and feeling the heat it still contained, he’s dumbstruck, fingers bending dumbly into the hardness of the bench.

Apparently Pastry Guy is a) incredibly talented with hand and mind already, to bend butter pastry to his will this way and b) he’s so adorably attractive Grif’s heart might’ve just skipped a beat.

He swallows.

“You uh—make great croissants and chocolate, dude. Especially a chocolate croissant,” Grif says gracefully. “You new?”

“Yeah,” he voices sounds out and it’s a bit deeper than Grif anticipated, more mature. “I’m not making any more for a while, so that’s the last for now.”

“I’m gonna buy all of them.” Grif nods his head. Wash rolls his eyes and returns to his spot before.

“I’d rather you not. Other people probably would like to buy them.”

He senses he’s a few words off insulting Grif, and Grif is nothing but the kind to test boundaries. “You look a little nerdy. What’s your name?”

“Check my badge, asshole.” He isn’t sure if he _likes_ the way this guy says asshole, but well, Grif isn’t too bothered either way, especially the fact he was just called an asshole.

“I hope you get called Cinnamon.” Grif snorts. “You know, because you work with baked goods.”

“Do you get called fatass? You know, because you eat so much.”

“That’s a first,” Grif says, pretending to be hurt. He sniffs. “You’ll have to make it up to me by giving me your phone number.”

“ _Never,_ not in a million years,” Simmons says as he crosses his arms.

“I’d still pay for the croissant, you know. If we get married.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d be the kind that would just _ask_ to be cooked for all the time, then you’d just use me for my pastry-making skills. That’s exploitation.”

“But you do wanna marry me.”

“I don’t commit so quickly, my dad says—”

“Pfft, screw parents,” Grif says, waving his hand and sipping his coffee. “I hope you didn’t make this coffee.”

“Donut is working it. And I mean he’s been calling it ‘working it’ all morning.”

“Oh boy, you’re gonna have a wild ride working here.” Grif grins and laughs and the expression on Simmons’ face after that is golden.

“You’ve uh,” Simmons says after blushing and ducking his head, “nice laugh.”

“Do I get your number yet?”

“Fuck no.”

Grif laughs again. “I’ll be seeing you around then, _Simmon_ s. What’s your first name?”

“I’m not saying.”

“Oh?” Grif half-grins and waits for it. Simmons groans.

“It’s Richard.”

“So it’s Dick.”

“You are _an insufferable_ —”

Grif’s routine has infinitely improved. Like, by a mammoth amount. The _pain au chocolat_ is not the sweetest part of his morning.

—

Simmons doesn’t give him his phone number, but Grif _does_ start trotting down after his shift finishes to the coffee shop and walking Simmons home.

On sight his father hates Grif and Grif already said to Simmons he’d take him back to Hawaii and marry him on the beach.

—

His sister has the time of her life orchestrating the bakery-themed wedding alongside Donut and Wash and Tucker finally meet at the wedding, and, well.

Grif frames a picture of one of Simmons’ creations on the mantelpiece so the legacy of the _pain au chocolat_ is not forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
